


Creamy Cravings

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: The partners have one hell of an ice cream craving, and the boys react with their own endearing charms.





	1. Noctis

“Puny…heh…I’ll show him puny…”

You’d watched him dream before. Usually it was utterly bizarre, but tonight’s entertainment seemed to have a cohesive narrative. Once he started mumbling about line tension and bait, you knew _exactly_ where he was. Somewhere, bare feet dangling in the cool air that veiled water, fishing as if time itself had paused for him alone.

“Look a’ this fisshhh…”

The satisfaction that twitched onto his face had you holding a snicker. Obviously, it was a big one.

“Imma slap you withit… you big hairy bird son of a…”

Well. It made a difference from the dreams that made him jump awake, muttering darkly about beans. 

** “ ** Requiescat in pace, biatch.”

He jolted awake, searching the sheets with navy-ringed pupils, blown wide in the darkness. You tried to hide your smirk in the pillow. He must’ve seen the laugh shaking in your throat.

“Hey, you awake?” he asked anyway, poking your shoulder gently.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice quaking with the threat of a laugh. “Sweet dream?”

He frowned bitterly.

“Kinda,” he began, pulling you into his chest. The husky tone of his voice was transient, falling silent in the middle of words, still rough from sleep. “Was in Lestallum, you remember the festival?”

How could you forget?

The cobbled streets of Lestallum, bright and fine in the colours of some lost nation; some heroic stranger. Same went for the boys. Dashing, roguish and foreign in those robes, he was still yours. A prince playing pauper. He’d looked so alive; blue eyes sparking like lightning over the sea. The memory was so vivid, you could feel the Cleigne heat washing over your skin and the fresh sorbets cooling your tongue. 

Especially the cherry one.

“Hey, Noct…” you began. He pried one of his eyes open and shuffled back to look at you. Sleep threatened to take him before you could finish. “Since you’re awake…”

Within fifteen minutes, you were sneaking into the Citadel kitchens under the assurance that _yes, his dad really did have an ice cream collection_ and _no, he wouldn’t mind._


	2. Prompto

The sweetness of it roused you. He’d stayed up playing Kings Knight, eventually showering before crashing into the bed with a thud that’d woken you up all over again. The sleepy wriggling was expected. Reassuring, even. He was still there; he was still kicking. 

Same went for the chocobump. 

What you hadn’t anticipated was his hair. It was almost dry now, pale locks turned silver in the moonlight. You blew a tickling strand from near your nose. Every muscle in your body tensed when he shook his head, fluffing his hair into disarray before nuzzling into your shoulder again. Then it hit you.

Raspberries.

His usual shampoo smelled like green apples, but recently the scent had made you feel nauseous. Eager to avoid anything remotely like the morning sickness you’d suffered in your first trimester, he’d bought another version. 

But now he smelled like raspberries. Like cream. The lazy breezes of late summer. _No, no. Grocery shopping tomorrow; you can wait._ He sighed through a deep breath, only sending more of that perfume your way.

_ Nope. I need it _ . 

“Prom,” you whispered. He barely stirred. 

“Prompto!” You whispered harshly. A weak protest left his mouth before he bit his bottom lip, frowning as he burrowed closer. 

You took a strand of his fringe and twisted it, gently tickling the end of his nose with it. He scrunched up immediately. Freckle-dusted cheeks drew taut, brows knitted and then releasing. A lazy hand tried to brush yours away. He knocked the strand of hair up his own nose, waking with a choking snort.

He sat up, blinking blunt eyes into sharp focus. Blue hues shone in the dark, locking on you.

“Wha-? Is- is the baby coming?!” He jumped clear out of the bed, thudding against the wall as he wrestled into his jeans.

“Prom!” You had to hold back a laugh. It was sweet, really.

“I know! Just-just breathe and I’ll- what?” his voice cracked repeatedly, still hoarse and airy from sleep. He slowed to fumble with his belt. He thought you looked very… calm. “Wait- _is_ it the baby?”

“No,” you snorted, trying to hide your grin from him. He was so eager, if a little nervous. “But it kind of is too. Can we go get ice cream?”

He stared you, jaw dropped and head tilted. His response came with a laugh of disbelief.

“Yeah, I guess!”

Half an hour later, you were at one of the all-night arcades you used to visit, refusing to share your second scoop of raspberry ripple.


	3. Ignis

He was always so still when he slept. Lips gently parted, stubble dusting his jaw overnight. In a few hours, he’d wake and begin his crusade for coffee. For now, he was a welcome presence. As settled as always, but through comfort; not composure. He kept to a steady rhythm, chest rising and falling under his bedshirt. It was a soft, Altissian cotton number. Pale cream, flecked with miniscule black marks. It made a thought snag in your mind.

Soon, the very idea of vanilla ice cream had you reeling. It’d always struck you as so boring, _plain_. Of course, he’d gently chastise you if you mentioned it. _Simplicity is as soothing as ignorance is bliss_. Words from years ago fluttered dizzily in your memory. Altissian evenings had been good to both of you, divinity shining in the summer stars. 

He had a point, as much as you hated to admit it. Suddenly, vanilla ice cream wasn’t just the _I suppose_ or the _if that’s all that’s left_ flavour. It was a luxury. It was on par with white rose petals, silk sheets, bubble baths, crisp white tablecloths at restaurants you’d visited, white wines you’d been lucky enough to kiss. Vanilla ice cream was on par with _him_ , and you knew it went so well with coffee. 

Trusting in his culinary prowess, you began to sidle from the bed. His mumbles through the cool air of the bedroom struck you, pinning you to the edge of the bed.

“Everything alright?”

You gaped around a response, wondering how to play this. 

“Course, just getting some water,” you turned around, knotting your fingers with his. You pulled his hand to your lips, brushing a soft kiss against his thumb. He hummed, drifting back to sleep.

Once in the kitchen, you had to figure out a way of making a shot of espresso quietly. Instant coffee wasn’t going to cut it. Ebony might, but it’d have to be hot. You poured a can out into a mug and threw it in the microwave. He’d balk at you. Affogato was one thing, but whatever you were doing was another monstrosity altogether. 

So when he appeared in the kitchen, bleary but already dressed, you had to check the clock. Four in the morning. Either the smell of sacrilege or hot coffee had roused him; you weren’t sure which. He squinted at the microwave and shot you a puzzled look as you dug through the freezer.

“Do we have any vanilla?” you asked, hauling out another tub of coconut sorbet. He shook his head.

“Regrettably, no,” he came closer, slipping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Di Alba opens in an hour. Breakfast?”

The offer was music to your ears. Sure enough, an hour and a half later you were taking in the sunrise in the west end of Insomnia, settled on a wrought iron bistro chair and polishing off a perfectly divine affogato, with extra ice cream.


	4. Gladiolus

You tapped your foot against your leg. He’d collapsed in the bed hours ago; exhausted and content. You’d _started_ that way. Kept awake by the raucous kicking of your unborn child, you’d waited patiently for it to stop. Then your darling partner had begun to snore. Loudly.

The volume itself wasn’t the problem. It was his breath. The parted plump lips that sent the reminder of summer days, freshly mown grass, verdant leaves. Mint. _Damn him and his perfect oral hygiene._ The smooth, creamy relief of the most cooling flavour of ice cream. You could almost taste it. You needed it.

Despite being the Shield, when he was out, he was _out._ You slipped out of bed, padding silently to the kitchen. With the light of the open fridge to guide you, the search began. The first drawer of the freezer was nothing but frozen fruit for smoothies. The second? Leftovers. Lasagna, chilli, even a few steaks. Most of them were from dinner parties at Ignis’. He always overestimated. Third came-

_Click._

The kitchen suddenly became a whole lot brighter. You froze and turned your head. There he was, spectacular as ever. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes, then a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

“What’re you doing?” he croaked, blinking in the harsh light as he tilted his head.

“Do we have any ice-cream?”

He narrowed his eyes, and you felt your heart sink when he began to slowly shake his head.

“Don’t think so, no.”

“Damn you, you health-nut,” you murmured, pouting at the freezer before swinging the door shut. He huffed a laugh and shook his head faster as he paced towards you. His lips pressed against your temple, stilling a hundred unfinished thoughts with one simple touch.

“I’ll get my shoes.”

And that’s how you ended up eating ice cream in the car at three in the morning.

 


End file.
